RPlog:On Dathomir
"Well...push comes to shove on that we're either walking away from eachother peacefully or we're doing it with blasters." Raxis turns to watch the fire, hypnotized by it. "I prefer peacefully but I'm willing to pull out hair like a girl if some trooper wants to get between me and a shuttle back home. So don't you worry...we'll be fine." Muttering to herself something that sounds like 'I'd do more that pull out hair.' as she takes out a field servicing kit for her rifle, Leyanne leans back against her pack. Relaxing slightly as she pulls a blaster pistol out of her thigh holster and sets it within quick reach, she prepares to clean her rifle. Marine Corps suggestions for fighting off boredom and anxiety? Clean your rifle of course. On orders from Inrokana, the unit assigned to this spiffy little mission swapped from standard flight gear to makeshift cammo, which amounted to a bit of grumbling and a wardrobe change in the bushes, literally. Attired now in cammo, her flight gear stored in a pack strapped to her back, Dante is seated in the shadows near another small fire, elbows resting on her knees, dark eyes steadily moving as she surveys the immediate camp and surroundings. Letting out another slow breath, Raxis sits up and pushes another log over with his stick, causing the fire to burn brighter for a moment with a whisp of burning ember. "Yeah...well I didn't crash to not go home and neither did you, and believe me...we're going home. Home, not some home someone else decides for me." Raxis replies, rubbins his hands and putting them over the fire. Looking around for a moment, he spies Dante at a nearby campfire, the very pilot who shot him down. "Kark..." Leyanne nods along with his little inspirational speech but doesn't seem totally convinced as she opens up the servicing kit. She is busy detaching the power cell from her rifle and cleaning the lead wires gently when she glances up at the profanity. "Something wrong sir?" Turning to follow his gaze she narrows her eyes at the imp for a moment, trying to see through the dark. One of the benefits to being dark in complexion is that one blends a wee bit better than some of the paler or lighter of the crew does. In the darkness it is only the faint gleam of her eyes that is visible in the dark and in the reflection of the firelight, and little else to betray her position. The next nearest shadow is that of another similarly attire pilot, though this one is taller, broader of shoulder and easier to spot due to the white undershirt he's wearing. White does smudge up so easily, after all, and his shirt is rather filthy compared to the appearance of hers. She recognizes raxis without difficulty, waiting until he's spotted her before she offers a slow measured nod towards him in greeting. Chuckling a little to himself, he nods back to Dante slowly in a greeting. Keeping appearances, he responds to Leyanne. "That...is the lady that shot me down onto the planet, of course." He replies, sipping his water. Clearly gazing over Dante and the man beside her for a moment, he rubs his chin and looks to Leyanne for a moment. "I was hoping this wouldn't turn into a gloating session, but if I know her well enough she's gonna remind me that I'm the one she shot down." Quirking an eyebrow at the Imperial pilot, Leya's gaze flicks over her and the other pilot measuringly. "Well it seems turnabout is fair play, otherwise she wouldn't be here for this little camp out of ours." Cocking back the mechanism on her gun she looks down the sights at a bush, pausing to add a little lube to one section. The pilot alongside Dante leans forward to retrieve a pair of cups that are planted in the dirt near the coals of the fire. He makes a muffle sound, shaking that hand briefly before using the edge of his jacket to snag the cups instead and offers one to Dante. She accepts it, using the same caution, and holds it between both hands while waiting for it to cool enough to be drinkable. Her gaze rarely remains focused on just one portion of the camp, but it does return time and again to Raxis and the soldier seated near him. "Actually, I don't know if there was anything left to shoot her down." Raxis replies quietly, taking another moment to turn and watch Dante. "I was shot down just before your corvette crashed. Which means most of the Nebulon B's were gone and so were the corvettes. Shame...she'd never admit it but I'd love to drill it home if I knew some poor flying caused her to crash." He adds, laughing quietly. "Needless to say, it's been tested and I think she's immune to my charm. The kid in me wants to go over there and pick on her a little bit if she did get shot down, but that won't ease the tension any." Leyanne frowns slightly at the revelation of how bad the battle really went. "I didn't realize it had gone that badly, I guess it's true that your head it stuck in your own little corner of the war." Finishing up on her rifle she reattaches the power cell, producing the telltale whine. "I have watch again at 0300 sir so I think I'll sack out for a time." Setting her chronometer to wake her, she leans back on her pack, holding her rifle to her chest like a deadly teddy bear. "G'night. And don't pick to many fights eh?" Winking at the pilot she closes her eyes, and is soon snoring softly. A brief shift in what little breeze there is causes the sparks fro the nearest fire to drift upwards in dancing motes of buring embers. Dante tilts her head back slightly, watching the smoke rise, still cushioning her hands from the heat of the cup by using the cuffs of her jacket. The contents, caf from a ration pac, will most likely be a fraction away from being nearly undrinkable, but drink it she will. "Well...I can't let boredom fall in..." Raxis replies, leaning up off of his back for the moment. Standing, he slips his pack over his shoulder and makes his way over to Dante's fire. Knowing well it was probably inappropriate and rude, he sits down near her and her companion. "So...I know how -I- ended up down here Dante, what the hell happened to you?" The sound of approaching footfalls heralds the approach of Raxis, though Dante had noted his approach the moment he stood up and headed towards their fire. She waits until he seats himself, invites himself in fact to their fire, before responding in a bland tone of voice, "I booked a vacation on the planet, of course. A tour of the wilds, the natural inhabitants, planned to take time to collect samples of the local flora and fauna. Maybe a spot of hunting. What brought you here?" she asks in that same mild tone of voice, making him say it. "Well a girl I know suggested I come. I was a bit hesitant at first but she booked the ticket for me so I was committed." Raxis replies, sippping his water. "...but my hotel was pretty good, after all Dante you have such a refined sense of style and taste if you're here the accomodations must be very worthwhile." There's a moment of silence before a low sound of amusement, a chuckle really, is made and Dante tilts her head slightly to study Raxis. "Nice come back. I'll give you full points in that round," she says while lifting the mug of hot caf and testing it with notable caution. "You should really order from the room service menu, it's to die for." "No I'm saving myself for something that tastes like death but has all of the vitamins I need." Raxis replies, lifitng his canteen to her in a mock toast. Propping one leg up, he sits in the dirt around their fire and gets as comfortable as he can. "So really, how the hell did you end up here. You shot me down and things were pretty much done up there..." Raxis pauses, hoping some of their flight group made it away. "Did you crash down here?" Dante shakes her head slowly, "Of course not," is said in a tone that indicates that she found that question to be rather ridiculous in context and form. "Someone had to fly the shuttle down to look for survivors," she explains simply with a lift of one shoulder in a shrug. "You all have such a lovely camp set up, we couldn't resist the invitation to come visit." "Ah...well I guess that makes sense. There's a good number of you, no reason to assume." Raxis replies, stretching his back out a little bit. "Well actually this camp is our auxilliary camp. We have a nicer camp over yonder with more women, fresh showers, and nerfsteak barbecues but someone's got to stay over here to make sure you don't go and spoil our fun. But then again, looks like we're all marooned here." He replies with a sigh, yawning a little. "Now, see, you almost had us. Offer us fresh showers and barbecues and we'd have resigned our commissions, en massee, and voluntered to fight for your side," Dante replies in a mournful tone of voice, shaking her head from side to side. There's a bit of laughter that travels around the fire, "So close, Raxis my lad, so close." "Yeah I'm always missing these great opportunities to turn a few of you over to my side. I remember there was that one time I tried to do it with beer but..." Raxis snaps his finger. "...I chose the wrong beer. You know Dante...call me crazy but I'm starting to get the feeling that if I ask nicely, it won't be nicely enough. If I give money, it'll be four credits too few. I think I've got you figured out." He replies, chuckling with them. "But I have half a cigar...so I'm allright." He adds, taking a puff from it. There's a snort of amusement from the tall pilot to the other side of Dante followed by, "You think you've got her figured out? Or all of us?" More amused sounds, though the amusement is quiet and in some cases missing entirely. Dante echoes the sentiment with a nod of her own followed by, "Enlighten us, if you would be so kind?" Pausing, Raxis looks to the pilot beside Dante and smiles with a shrug as if to say 'very well then'. Sitting up a little bit, he puffs off of his cigar again, pointing to the two of them. "Allright, here's how it works. Imperial pilots wear black because in space there's -alot- of black. Since pilots cost more to train, you all use locator beacons and wear black to avoid being seen after you're blasted out of a TIE fighter. Stormtroopers don't cost as much to train, which is why they wear white even in a forest. Except for the ones with the orange shoulderplates. It's almost as if to say 'shoot me, the asshole with the shoulderplate'. So I've surmised for years that the squadron commander for stormtroopers is the guy standing next to the one in the orange shoulderplate. Because once a sniper takes -that- guy out, the squad leader knows what to do." Raxis replies, clearly joking around with them. "Some crew wear grey with black hats and others black with grey hats. Seriously, I think there's something terribly wrong with the mere outfitting of Imperial soldiers to a point that I think you're all being camouflaged so that -you- will be hit instead of your expensive equipment." There's a long moment of silence after Raxis postulates his theory, more silence as the pilots and Imperial personnel glance around at each other and then back at the rebel pilot. More silence in which the sound of the fire crackling and embers popping from the heat is suddenly loud. A log snaps, breaking into smaller segments, the coals flaring red briefly before beginning to collapse into so much composite material. Finally Dante says, "Interesting. So, from your point of view, the colors of the various gear and uniforms of our fighting forces denotes the value of the type of soldier. The darker the uniform or the more cammoflauge that the soldier is wearing, the more value he or she has. So the troopers with the bright orange are more expendable, while pilots and the like are not - we're more expensive." She absently flicks a winged insect off of one arm and studies Raxis, "So you're saying that all of the Rebel soldiers , then, are equally expendable?" "No. I don't think really that any rebel soldier is more or less expendable than any imperial soldier." Raxis replies, grinning to them. "I'm just saying that when it comes to armor and uniforming your troops, I think someone blind is involved. Sure, your side might have some better tools, but the NR's definitely capitalized on the whole being able to hide in trees end of things." He adds, smiling again to drag off of his cigar. "But someone got something right. You pilots, outside of your ships, are a pain in the neck to find. Then there's you Dante...same thing. You're wearing green in the dark. Your skin color is actually better suited to camouflage you than your clothing." Raxis chuckles, shaking his head. "Damn Empire doesn't know a thing about camo." "Our wardrobe does not meet with the standards set by Raxis or the Rebel government and military machine," Dante muses aloud. "What ever will we do?" She shakes her head, again a mournful air. "It could be that there's a reason to have the uniforms in such a specific color code. It could be so that a storm trooper is recognized, on sight, for who and what it is, without having to explain - at length, and in detail - what it's job is. It could be that the uniform colors and codes are part of tradition, and the Empire is big on tradition and the continuity thereof. But, by all means, we'll take your comments and suggestions under advisement and fill out the proper forms to see if someone higher up in the food chain will take it under further advisement." "Nah this is the kinda stuff that comes out during Sabacc." Raxis replies, leaning back on his pack a bit to relax. "Uniform color doesn't mean a thing to me and it's obvious that pilots and stormtroopers aren't intended to be individuals with faces, hence the masks." Raxis replies, turning to look to them with a smile. "...but if you really do want to take a list of suggestions, I'm sure I could think of a few." "Oh, by all means, continue," Dante offers, using one hand to gesture to include those gathered around the fire. "Please, you have suggestions. It's so rare that we get an outside point of view on these things. We've covered uniform colors and forms. What else would you make a suggestion on?" "Nah probably not a good idea, being that we're having to share this nice tight little spot together. It was more one of those things that if you had the ability to get a few suggestions up to the Emperor level, I'd be more than willing to give him a few suggestions." Raxis replies, dragging off his stogie. "Oh...I thought of another question. This fella I know back home has always wondered this. Do you guys have stormtrooper bartenders or medics that have smiles instead of the frown?" "Frowns are standard issue. Smiling can cost a trooper a dermerit," Dante replies in a dead-pan tone of voice, without pause, "and get one written up on report." "Damn I hope you're joking." Raxis replies, chuckling a little. "I just couldn't help but not ask. I mean all your stormtroopers have the helmets with this..." He pauses, choosing his words. "...constipated buck-toothed grimmace. I mean sure, some of ours have that look on their faces too, but we don't put that crap on our helmets." "Raxis," Dante begins, shaking her head slowly, "Raxis, lad, have I ever given you the impression that I have a sense of humor? If I ever had one it was wiped clean years ago," she relates before taking another drink from the cup in her hands. "That's their game face, Raxis. Would you prefer they were smiling, jocular fellows with a Hail, stranger, well met sort of mentality? "Well I might feel worse about shooting at them if I had the impression they were jolly old chaps that blew up balloon animals for the kids in the trauma ward on the weekends, so yes." Raxis replies, smiling to her softly. "Seriously. Starfighter pilots have on record for either side the shortest life excpectancy. We life once. You bet your ass I'm going to have a sense of humor and you should too." "I don't belive my clearance level allows for humor," Dante replies in a low, almost - could it be? - a thoughtful tone of voice. "I'll have to go over my mission briefing data and my security clearance particulars, but I'm entirely positive - at least a solid 75% that humor is not allowed nor is it acceptable for this specific mission. In general, however, humor is allowed and cleared on a case by case basis. It must be requested and approved in advance and one must carry a copy of that authorization on their person at all times and be prepared to provide the supporting approval before, during and after engaging in such humorous or jocular activities. Protocol must be observed at all times, Raxis, certainly you can see the merit of this." "Of course." Raxis replies smartly, winking at the two pilots. "But if you can't be approved for humor then consider this. After suffering a defeat at the hands of the Empire I find myself on Dathomir of all places, surrounded by Rancor and giant spiders. I killed three fanged tree-monkeys. Then, due to some sort of problem, a fist of imperials has to bail out of their camp and is invited to share ours. If this isn't a perfectly good setup for a joke, I don't know what is." Raxis adds. "Or...should I put on my game face?" He finishes, trying to make his best mock stormtrooper face. Pulling his jaw back in a tight lipped scowl, he looks more like a bloated fish. "There you go," Dante replies, "that's the spirit. Keep up that expression, apply yourself to the task at hand. Someday you too could enjoy the rewards of Imperial service. Unlimited health care plan. Retirement benefits. Payroll investment options. Room, board, tailored rations to your specific dietary needs. Equipment, training, weapons and career counseling all to be had for the lucky." Pausing, Raxis looks around for a moment, and then in a hushed tone he leans forward to whisper with them. "You've got to be kidding me...my investment options don't vest until after ten years of service." He replies, sarcastically. Dante leans forward and replies, "You signed up for the wrong military, Raxis. Of course, in your case, you won't live long enough to retire and reap the benefits of any potential investments. But, that's a moot point I'm sure." "Such a long winded way of threatening me with death you apparently couldn't deliver to me eight days ago. You're not actually trying nor interested in recruiting me." Raxis replies with a smile, dragging off of his cigar. Leaning back, he rests against his backpack again and watches them. "Camp just keeps getting smaller and smaller doesn't it?" Dante taps the side of her nose with one finger tip, "Got it in one, Raxis," she replies with a ghost of a smile, white teeth flashing in the dark for a moment. "You try to kill me, I try to kill you. i'm sure it'd be easier if we just agreed to go home and play nice, but we're not trained to do that, are we?" "We'd be overrun by pirates in a week if we were." Raxis replies, still being friendly with the enemy to help ease the camp's tension. "Really in the end of the day there's no connection in between. We're the hand that pulls the trigger but not the brains that make the decision. Regardless of how this ends on this planet, rest assured we'll be trying to kill eachother again very soon. Right now this is just a collective survival project. We may very well require eachothers' coordinated effort to survive until we get the suprise as to who's rescue boat returns first." Dante's bland expression is barely visible in the fire light, but there's enough conveyed to imply that she's uncertain whether or not their coordinated efforts are allowed. "Orders must be obeyed," she finally says, "and on that one I'll agree. We don't make the decisions, we just carry them out." "Well on that note..." Raxis stands with a grunt, pulling his backpack to his shoulder again with a nod to them. "...let's see how this one rolls out. It'll be interesting in the least. Tell the Krieg I said hello if he's skulking around here somewhere. I'm sure I'll see him before too long." Raxis finishes, giving them a goodbye nod before moving to his sleeping area in a small makeshift overhung camouflaged canopy. Yawning sleepily, he sets his backpack down and uses it for a pillow.